


ostentatio vulnerum

by moemachina



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Blasphemy, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21622936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moemachina/pseuds/moemachina
Summary: Waiting in a steady drizzle for two hours gave Wiegraf ample opportunity to consider his current state: wet, cold, and waiting for a summons that might possibly result in his own imprisonment.
Relationships: Zalbaag Beoulve/Wiegraf Folles
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	ostentatio vulnerum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorpseBrigadier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpseBrigadier/gifts).



> This story indiscriminately borrows spellings from both the PSX and the PSP editions, because I am an agent of chaos.

Waiting in a steady drizzle for two hours gave Wiegraf ample opportunity to consider his current state: wet, cold, and waiting for a summons that might possibly result in his own imprisonment.

_Maybe even an execution for treason this time, Wiegraf._

His mother had wanted him to be a priest. His mother had wanted a lot of things. He could almost hear her voice in his head: _You’re good with your letters and your sums, ain’t you? You won that scholarship to attend those lessons, even though we can barely afford to lose you at the farm?_ And a priest, now that was a life: all cozy robes and warm candles and people tugging a forelock as they called you ser. No getting up at four in the morning to help the cow deliver another dead calf; no mucking out the blood and feathers from the fox-stricken chicken coop. What more could you want, little Wiegraf, from this hard and miserable life?

 _Perhaps I don’t believe in God, mother_ , Wiegraf replied.

 _Tcch, what is a little atheism_ , said Wiegraf’s imagined mother, or someone like her, someone a little bolder and a little more sarcastic.

The chill wet collected along the edges of his wide-brimmed hat and dripped down, like an erratic finger-tap, on his shoulder.

The flap of the commander’s tent opened and despite his firm intentions, Wiegraf could not help but turn his head and look expectantly ( _like a dog_ , came a semi-maternal voice, high-pitched and piping, _like some obedient hound awaiting his master’s call_ ) at the figure who was emerging.

But it was no man that Wiegraf knew, and it was not anyone coming to summon Wiegraf to account for his recent actions. Something about him tugged at Wiegraf’s memory. Had they met? Was he some younger son of a prominent family? He was tall and broad-shouldered with dirty blond hair, and though something about the man teased at the edges of his mind, Wiegraf could not place him.

The unknown man glanced indifferently in Wiegraf’s direction before walking past him and down the hill that led to the main encampment.

Wiegraf turned his head to watch the unknown man until he was out of sight, and then Wiegraf turned back to look at the now-closed tent flap. He could see a little line of lamplight shining through the edge of the flap. Now and then, the faint sound of voices reached him. There was an ongoing war conference in that tent, and it was not hard to guess what it foretold. When Wiegraf had ridden into the camp two hours ago (doing his best to keep a recalcitrant chocobo from either bolting or biting him), the general atmosphere had been one of elated despair.

Wiegraf knew what that meant. Everyone was waiting for orders to to strike everything and move out. Messengers would be sent, maybe were already being sent to all the far-flung limbs of the army, convulsing the slow-moving giant. A series of sealed and coded messages would galvanize everyone.

Of course, when one of those messengers arrived at the Dead Men, he would find not Lieutenant Wiegraf in residence, ready and able to decode whatever message had been sent. Instead, he would find Wiegraf’s second-in-command, Billums, a former mason’s apprentice who was as thick as a stone wall and roughly as bright. In some ways, Wiegraf had picked Billums as his second because he was, essentially, honest and fair; in more important ways, Wiegraf had picked Billums because Billums had survived service with the Dead Men for a year, and that duration of experience was unusual among the Dead Men. Of the current company, the only man who had served longer was Wiegraf himself.

Wiegraf could well imagine Billums’ reaction to the messenger: Billums’ deep sigh; Billums’ slow walk down the steps of the cellar of the mayor’s house, which served for now as the headquarters of the Dead Men; Billums’ slow hunt through Wiegraf’s books until he found the prayer-book designated as the key to the cypher; Billums’ slow, laborious effort to decode the letter (accidentally scattering drops of ink along the margins of the prayer-book and up and down his forearms); Billums’ subsequent effort to read the decoded message, his brow furrowed, his mouth sounding out every word. Wiegraf had once watched Billums attempt to read a dirty limerick scrawled on the outside of an outhouse; the recitation had taken nearly half an hour.

Not that the message’s precise wording would matter. Whenever the military commanders remembered the existence of the Dead Men, it was only to one purpose.

Thus. Not only was Lord Commander Balbanes leaving Wiegraf to mildew out here until they were done discussing supply lines and chocobo charges, but he probably also had plans to throw away his company of Dead Men yet again on some fucking fool assault.

The guard standing next to the tent entrance was staring at Wiegraf with a frown, and, belatedly, Wiegraf realized he was baring his teeth in the tent’s direction. Wiegraf closed his mouth and looked away.

Not too late to join the priesthood, he grimly imagined his mother saying. Light some candles, bless some water, toss some salt. Carry a little book that nobody can read. You don’t even have to bother with God. What does a priest need with God?

 _And what of the family line, Mother?_ Wiegraf thought, falling easily back into a well-rehearsed script. _You have only one son, and priests cannot marry. Who will bear the family name forward if I do not leave an heir?_

 _Oh, grandchildren_ , his mother said, in a tone of sarcasm she had never displayed in life -- and now his imaginary interlocutor was furthering blurring, losing the outline of his mother, becoming someone else entirely. _Good thing you never became a priest, then. Otherwise, you would have missed out on your oh-so-happy marriage and your oh-so-many children! Oh, to think of the women you might have left unpleasured, Wiegraf._ And now Wiegraf found himself imagining not his mother but instead his sister, the corner of her mouth curled up in a characteristic sneer, her voice high and mocking.

And with the thought of Milleuda, Wiegraf involuntarily bowed his head, and the cold rain slid down the back of his neck and under his shirt collar.

“Lieutenant Folles?”

Wiegraf looked up and found a young man wearing the colors of House Beoulve standing before him. The young man was regarding him without pity.

“Lieutenant Folles, the commander will see you now.”

Wiegraf swallowed and followed him past the grim guards. The young man held back the opening of the tent, and Wiegraf stepped inside.

The tent was vast and its interior was lit by more than a dozen oil lamps. Underfoot, the grass within the the tent’s walls had been clearly trampled and scuffed for days by heedless feet, the once-green blades crushed into dull browns and yellows. Wiegraf could tell that, even after the armies left and this tent was packed up and carried off, even after this hillside was allowed to return to a state of unmolested unimportance, there would remain a vast circular patch that held no grass, just dead earth.

Several men were seated and eating at a large wooden table, and even as part of Wiegraf was identifying the men (there was Orlandu, there was Larg, there was fucking Elmdore), another part of him -- sneering, high-pitched and mocking -- was thinking, _What poor bastards had to be in charge of dragging a heavy oak table from encampment to encampment just so these assholes had a place to rest their finger bowls?_

Wiegraf stopped in the middle of the tent and knelt. He swept off his hat, and little drops of water fell among the dying grass.

The men at the table ignored Wiegraf. They kept eating and talking amongst themselves and occasionally moving pieces of paper around. Orlandu was positioning little painted wood chips on a large map and frowning with concentration; Larg, exhibiting the same degree of intense concentration, was eating a fried turkey leg.

Finally, at one end of the table, one man -- a bearded man whom Wiegraf belatedly recognized as the eldest Beoulve son -- looked up from the sheaf of papers he was examining and said, “Father, your blind man is here.”

 _Dead Men_ , Wiegraf thought involuntarily behind clamped lips. _We are the Dead Men, you buffoon._

Commander Balbanes Beoulve, who was writing something out, did not look up. “Ah, yes. Lieutenant Folles. Forgive me, but I must finish this letter before the dispatch rider departs. It is fortunate that you arrived when you did. Tomorrow, this encampment will be moving fifteen miles north.”

Larg made a wet smacking noise as he strained to get a difficult chunk of meat off his turkey leg.

“I came as soon as I received your summons, lord commander,” Wiegraf said, still kneeling.

Dycedarg leaned forward. “Did you indeed? It seems as if it took our messenger an uncommonly long time to find you.”

Wiegraf remained impassive. He continued looking at Balbanes, not Dycedarg. “My lord. We have split our company into parts. It took some time for your messenger to find me in the confusion.”

Balbanes, who was carefully blotting his letter, looked up at this. “Indeed? I do not remember authorizing that. But no matter. Our messenger was sent to ask you about the deserter -- who was he, again, Dycedarg?”

“Margriff, lord father. Gustav Margriff.”

Balbanes, shaking sand off the paper, fixed Wiegraf with his eye. “Yes, Gustav. One of the knights under my command. He was involved in some unpleasantness. Some _decided_ unpleasantness. Then he deserted three months ago. And then my quartermaster reported that the Dead Men had a new recruit matching Gustav’s description, with the records of his pay going back some three months.”

Wiegraf did not react. “Yes. Your messenger reported this to me.”

“And yet you did not send Gustav back to face my justice. Instead, you told the messenger -- what did he tell the messenger, Dycedarg?”

Dycedarg smiled. “My lord father, Lieutenant Folles responded that he had, quote, no time for this noble nonsense, and also if he was obliged to send back every accused rapist, thief, and murderer, the Dead Men should have no more soldiers on their rolls.”

Wiegraf shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure that’s verbatim, my lord.”

“That’s true,” Dycedarg said. “I stand corrected. Your verbatim response was punctuated several time with ‘you fucking fool.’”

Elmdore, sitting next to Dycedarg, moved his hand across his mouth to conceal a smile.

Balbanes drummed his fingers along the surface of the table. “How long have you been with the Dead Men, lieutenant?”

“Two years, near enough, ser.”

“How long have you been in command of the brigade?”

“Four months, ser.”

“It was an irregular promotion, was it not?”

Wiegraf swallowed. ( _Careful, Wiegraf, careful here_.) “Captain Chandler passed away from dysentery, and I was his second-in-command. To me fell command of the brigade. You confirmed it yourself.”

“Yes,” Balbanes said. “I did, at that. It was during the push to secure the valley, and I did not have the opportunity to deliberate over such things. You were not known to me, but I knew Chandler, and if he had trusted you with such a role, then I felt you were a worthy choice.”

(Chandler, his boots up on the table, frowning into the lamplight: _You’ve been in the company longer than any of the other men, Folles, and you don’t seem like a pigfucker in any of the ways that really annoy me, so you might as well be my lieutenant. You’re certainly a damn sight more organized than any of the other pigfuckers at hand._ )

“Ser,” Wiegraf said tonelessly.

“We spoke, did we not, a few weeks later?” Balbanes continued.

“The battle of Pickert River,” Wiegraf said, remembering the smell of bloated bodies floating in the water, the sound of the buzzing flies. “Yes, I was there.”

“You seemed capable, and no one could doubt your bravery. So why not leave the Dead Men in your hands?” Balbanes continued to drum his fingers on the table. “But now I wonder if I misplaced my trust. Of late, the Dead Men have not always been in the places where they are supposed to be. I did not authorize this division of the company.” He held up a hand to forestall Wiegraf’s response. “And then there is this issue of Gustav. And now, there is the matter of you and your insolence to my messenger.”

“To be fair,” Wiegraf said, “the messenger arrived during a moment when we were trying to put out a fire and prevent the town’s granary from going up in smoke. I was somewhat...distracted in the moment that he was attempting to speak with me.”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” Balbanes said, at last, slowly. He handed his letter to his page, who received it with reverence. “Your valor was reported as well, Wiegraf. The messenger reported that you went into a burning building and single-handedly dragged out one of your unconscious men.”

“Yes,” Wiegraf said distantly, remembering the heavy weight thrown across his shoulders as he staggered through the smoke-filled room, tumbling out the open door and immediately passing out -- only to wake, some ten or twenty minutes later, as someone splashed water on his face and he heard a familiar voice say, _By Ajora’s sweet cunt, the lieutenant is alive. Run and tell Milly_.

But all Wiegraf said was, “Yes, that happened.”

“And then you sent the messenger back,” Balbanes said. “Which now necessitated me to send yet another messenger, this time to summon you to answer for what appears -- to me -- to be gross insubordination. Verging on mutiny. Stand, Folles, and answer for yourself.”

Wiegraf stood, his battered straw hat clutched at his side. “I am a loyal servant, my lord.”

“No,” Balbanes said, “or else you would have sent back Gustav.”

Wiegraf licked his lips. “I do not have a Gustav to send you. As I said, we split up our company, and he’s been sent to the eastern ridge. There was no opportunity to recall him. And I could not answer your messenger’s question. Is this Gustav the same Gustav Margriff who disgraced himself among the knights of the Northern Sky? I cannot say, because I have never met the Gustav Magriff who disgraced himself among the knights of the Northern Sky.”

“All the more reason to fetch him and bring him before me,” Balbanes said, “for I would be able to answer that question definitively.”

Wiegraf was silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. “When a man joins the Dead Men, he is given amnesty for his prior crimes, my lord.”

The men at the table went still. Dycedarg stopped smiling. Larg lowered his turkey leg.

“Not desertion,” Balbanes said sharply, thumping his hand against the top of the table. “Never desertion, or else we shall have no more order in anything!”

Wiegraf said nothing. _This is it_ , he heard his sister’s voice say, _this is when they’re going to charge you with insubordination and a summary execution, can’t waste any time, they’ve got to get this army on the move, just you and a tree stump and a sharp axe, and you will receive nothing that has been promised_.

“Why defend him?” This voice came from behind Wiegraf, and he turned to find a stranger standing at the tent entrance -- the man from before, who had walked through the rain as if it was nothing. He was wet now, his hair reduced to dark blond ringlets across his forehead. “Why shield Gustav? If you knew his crimes, you would not be in such haste to ruin your honor on his behalf.”

Wiegraf frowned. (An involuntary memory: _By Ajora’s tits, Wiegraf, I swear I didn’t do it. She was dead by the time I got there, and all those assholes were standing around her laughing, as if it was nothing, those fucking butchers._ )

“I defend no one, ser, but in truth, I do not think he could possibly be your man,” Wiegraf said. “I have met this man, Gustav, and he is more than a little rustic. He is no former knight.”

There was a rustling at the table, and Wiegraf turned back to find Dycedarg rising to his feet. “You will not deny my lord father’s justice, Folles.”

Balbanes himself said nothing as he regarded Wiegraf through narrowed eyes.

“Perhaps,” said the man behind Wiegraf, “I have a solution.”

Balbanes inclined his head. “Speak, Zalbag.”

“It is the case, is it not, that the Dead Men are stationed in the town of Creshire?”

Wiegraf’s mouth tightened. “That was so when I was forced to depart. I do not know if the situation has changed in my absence.”

“Orders have been sent to them,” Balbanes said blandly, “but they are last in the messenger’s circuit. They may or may not have received them by now.”

“My lord father,” said Zalbag -- and now Wiegraf could see the family resemblance that bound him to Balbanes and Dycedarg -- “have you not been saying for weeks that we need to inspect the Dead Men’s current operations. Why not now? I can ride back with him and inspect the state of the brigade and render a report about the lieutenant’s capability for command. And I have met Gustav Magriff, so I will be able to immediately judge if he is the man you seek or not.”

Dycedarg sank back into his chair. “So efficient. So many birds, so few stones, Zalbag.”

Zalbag ignored Dycedarg. “My lord father?”

Balbanes was silent for a long moment.

Larg began to strip off the last fragments of gristle from the bone of the turkey leg.

Finally Balbanes said, “Very well. Accompany the lieutenant and see what I cannot see, my son. I send my justice in your hands.”

“My lord father, it is a heavy honor, but I will try to carry it.”

Wiegraf and Dycedarg simultaneously rolled their eyes.

“You should lose no time in setting forth,” Balbanes said. “You may beat the messenger. And when you return, look for us in the north.”

“I will not tarry,” Zalbag said, and Wiegraf turned back to find him already lifting the tent flap.

“Take care of my son, Folles,” Balbanes said.

“Indeed,” Dycedarg said, his voice thick with irony. “We have entrusted the fairest flower in House Beoulve to you.”

“You are dismissed, Folles,” Balbanes said, already turning his attention back to another letter before him. “Go with God.”

Outside, it was raining harder than ever, and once again, the waiting Zalbag seemed entirely indifferent to it.

The two men regarded one another expressionlessly. Zalbag was the first to speak.

"Is your chocobo sufficiently refreshed?" he asked Wiegraf. "Or do you need a fresh mount?"

Wiegraf grimaced.

Wiegraf's mount was a young, half-wild chocobo he had won in a card game some six weeks ago, and he was already infamous for trying to abandon Wiegraf at inopportune moments -- to the point where Wiegraf had begun to darkly suspect that maybe he hadn't, in fact, won that card game six weeks ago. (In retrospect, the chocobo's previous owner had perhaps been too serene and philosophical at his loss.)

At this unexpected question from Zalbag, it was on the tip of Wiegraf's tongue to say _oh no he’s utterly worn out please sir give me a new bird and send this one to the broilers_.

But instead, Wiegraf heard himself say, "Boco is still good to travel."

He said this again, fifteen minutes later, as he tightened the saddle straps on Boco's side, and he saw Boco's eyes roll back in a way that usually signaled that the chocobo was about to do something rash and regrettable -- and Wiegraf tightened the strap even further and thought, as hard as he could, _so help me bird if you do a single thing to embarrass me right now then I’ll roast you myself and Prince Larg will soon be picking you out of his teeth_.

Something of his thoughts must have made itself clear to Boco, because the chocobo immediately went limp and pliant, and Wiegraf was able to mount him without difficulty.

“How far is Creshire? Half a day?”

“More or less.” Wiegraf glanced up at the dark clouds overhead. “Perhaps we will make it there before nightfall”

But they did not make it to Creshire before nightfall because Zalbag insisted on stopping at every religious site -- every chapel, every shrine, every ruin -- that they encountered along the way.

At first, Wiegraf thought it was a joke when Zalbag dismounted in front of the dilapidated shrine. But even as a laugh bubbled to Wiegraf’s lips, Zalbag was walking to the entrance and ducking his head to enter.

Zalbag remained inside for fifteen minutes, and during that time, Boco surreptitiously crept closer and closer to a tree and then tried to use it to scrape Wiegraf off his saddle.

The second time Zalbag pulled to a halt in front of a small church, Wiegraf opened his mouth -- and then closed it again.

But the third time, as Zalbag slowed in front of the long-ruined remains of a fallen church, Wiegraf could no longer contain himself.

“Really?” Wiegraf asked as Zalbag swung down to the ground. “Surely we need not be this pious, ser.”

Zalbag, standing beside his chocobo, went still. “What do you mean, lieutenant?”

“Are we not in a hurry? Are we not trying to make it to the Dead Men before the messenger sent by your father? Is it not...unnecessary to stop at every single little hut and dry well dedicated to St. Ajora?”

Zalbag squinted at him. “This is no mere ‘hut,’ lieutenant. It was at this site that the Blessed St. Ajora once resurrected a man. We would be remiss if we did not honor His great works.”

“We will be remiss if we don’t catch up with the Dead Men.”

Zalbag’s eyebrows lowered. “We must not allow temporal considerations to distract us from our obligations of worship.” He turned away from Wiegraf and started walking toward the ruins.

“Obligations?” Wiegraf hissed.

Zalbag continued walking toward the ruins. “Obligations, lieutenant. I am a knight. I am bound by such things, even if you are not.”

Zalbag did not look back to see how this comment was received. If he had, he might have seen Wiegraf grow pale and start to withdraw his sword -- and then Boco, seizing the moment, attempt to rear wildly and buck off Wiegraf, forcing him to cling to his saddle as he struggled to keep his seat.

Zalbag, serenely unaware of his near-miss with vengeance, continued walking forward until he disappeared past the remains of a white wall.

Fifteen minutes later, when Zalbag returned, Boco was docilely eating from a feed-bag and Wiegraf was leaning over a tree stump and sharpening his sword with a whetstone. Perhaps some whisper of unconscious self-preservation made Zalbag stop well out of Wiegraf’s reach and regard the other man narrowly.

“Let’s get a few things straight, ser,” Wiegraf said without looking up from his sword.

Zalbag said nothing, but he noticed that Boco took a few judicious steps away at the sound of Wiegraf’s voice.

“I am no knight, it’s true. But I am no peasant for you to mock, either.”

Zalbag said nothing.

“I know why you’re going to the Dead Men, Zalbag.” Wiegraf lifted his sword from the stone and began wiping it off with a cloth.

“I’m going to find Gustav Magriff,” Zalbag said.

Wiegraf finally looked up. “Gustav is a pretext. You’re coming for the Dead Men themselves.” He jammed the sword back in his scabbard and began rolling up the whetstone in its traveling pack. “It’s obvious. Look at you. This is your first year at the front, isn’t it? You’re, what...eighteen?”

Zalbag’s gaze was steady. “Nearly nineteen.”

Wiegraf, who was twenty, rolled his eyes contemptuously. “Nearly nineteen, I beg your pardon. But anyway, you’re all of eighteen, and yet here you are, your first year in this war, because you’ve had to spend all that time in Gariland, all that time learning to be a _knight_.”

Zalbag said nothing.

“I enlisted when I was fourteen,” Wiegraf said. “I had no choice. My parents had died from a plague, and their neighbors seized the farm. No matter. There was always the war. I have no lineage, no armor, no patrons, but no matter. The war always needs fresh bodies.”

Zalbag said nothing.

“And say what you will about the war, it is a good teacher,” Wiegraf said. “I have learned far more than I would have learned in any school room. For example, I know that you are the second son fresh from the academy, and as you are utterly untried in battle, you have no knights from your own house you can command. And given your lack of experience, you have not yet had the chance to earn another type of command. But what is a knight who leads no men? A very sorry excuse for a man. How annoying, how vexing.”

Wiegraf snapped his fingers. “But look, an opportunity arises. Why not the Dead Men? They’re not respectable, they’re not prestigious, but they’re _something_. And sure, of course, they already have a leader, but he’s a nobody, and he’s already in trouble. Why not simply have him discharged? Why not scoop up the Dead Men for yourself? They’re not impressive, but they’re a _start_ \-- and after you’ve thrown them away on a couple fool-hardy assaults, once you’ve killed most of them, why, your lord father will be so impressed by your bravery that he’ll name you to a more respectable command.”

Zalbag swallowed. He had the decency to look away, and when he spoke, his voice cracked slightly. “No. Do not mistake me for my...my brother, Wiegraf.”

“There is no difference,” Wiegraf said. “You are a Beoulve, after all.”

“You are mistaken,” Zalbag said again, more firmly this time. “Believe what you may like, Wiegraf, but I will be a fair and just arbiter.”

“Hmmm,” Wiegraf said. “I’ve met your type before, Zalbag. I know you.”

“Maybe,” Zalbag said. “But I walk in St. Ajora’s light. He sees all that I do.”

Wiegraf snorted. “Come on. We’re wasting daylight.”

For the rest of the ride to Creshire, they did not speak -- although Zalbag continued to stop and dismount at every church, while Wiegraf silently watched him with a sneer.

They had brought no food with them, and so by the time the walls of Creshire appeared on a distant hillside, Wiegraf was beginning to genuinely look forward to arriving at the Dead Men's lodgings, if only because it would mean a hot cup of something.

Creshire had not been a particularly picturesque settlement even before the Dead Men had arrived and commandeered the town. A month of barracked soldiers had not done any favors for Creshire's limited natural beauty -- especially since the town’s granary had gone up in flames a few days prior. (Arson? Accident? Who could say.) Every day, one or two of the townspeople fled Creshire -- despite the strict announcements from the mayor mandating their support for Ivalice's ever-marauding army -- and Wiegraf knew a similar exodus was occurring among the farms surrounding the town.

Of course, it was a difficult calculus: where could one go? If you just stayed quiet and patiently fed the soldiers forcibly quartered in your house, maybe the edge of the war would move forward, and the soldiers would leave, and you'd once again be allowed to resume your old way of life. Or maybe the Romandan army would sweep over the eastern ridge and burn your fields and violate your daughters. Or maybe you'd leave under the cover of darkness and run to your cousin's cousin who lived in Gariland -- but maybe that cousin was dead, or would turn you away, or you'd freeze to death on the roads. Or maybe the war would never leave, the stationed soldiers would never leave, and you'd watch all your sugar and turnips and wheat -- carefully hoarded to last you through the coming winter -- disappear into the bellies of thankless, belching soldiers. And not even the bellies of soldiers with any coin, not even knights with gracious manners and well-heeled treasurers, but the bellies of the Dead Men -- the Forsworn, the Forsaken, the absolute dregs of the army.

Stay or go? A risk either way, and precious little reward on either side.

Wiegraf understood the dilemma. His father had drunkenly raged every spring, whenever one of the local lords launched an inevitable assault against a neighbor, while his weeping mother tried to hush him before he said something that would get him clapped in the nearest stocks.

Wiegraf understood the dilemma -- but his first loyalty was to the Dead Men and making sure that they stayed fed. So he had made it clear to the people of Creshire that they were not to move from Creshire, under the penalty of treason and death. 

"What?" Zalbag said, turning to look at him. "Did you say something?"

"No," Wiegraf said. "Nothing, ser."

"So this is Creshire," Zalbag said, but he was not looking at the town. Instead, he was facing the fields immediately below the hill, where a single solitary building sat. "Is that the local church?"

"It is," Wiegraf said, rolling his eyes. "No priest, though. He died last winter after eating a bad mushroom, they tell me, and Mullonde has yet to get around to sending his successor."

From the branches overhead came the fluting cry of a chaffinch, although it was late in the season for chaffinches to be this far north.

Wiegraf leaned back in his saddle as Boco stirred mutinously. "My men think the church is haunted."

Zalbag looked back at him. "By the former priest?"

Wiegraf shrugged. "I don't know. I've never seen anything. But some of my men think they've seen lights at night floating in the graveyard, heard unearthly singing. That sort of thing."

"You're a skeptic, lieutenant." It was not a question.

Wiegraf shrugged. “More inclined to believe in smugglers than ghosts, ser.”

"I would see this church," Zalbag said at last, sending his chocobo forward toward the diverted path toward the church. He did not look back to see if Wiegraf followed.

Wiegraf did not follow.

Instead, he calmly watched Zalbag move further and further, until the man was out of earshot.

“I am going to ruin you, Zalbag,” he said softly.

Then he said, a little more loudly, "It's not the season for chaffinches."

There was silence.

There was a rustle of leaves.

"Not supposed to be a good chaffinch." A pair of filthy bare feet dangled out of an nearby tree, followed quickly by the rest of a girl as she dropped to the ground. Dusting herself off as she rose to a standing position, she squinted balefully at Wiegraf. "If it was a good chaffinch, you'd just think oh, there's a chaffinch. You wouldn't think oh, there's the secret signal."

"Yes, darling," Wiegraf said. "But the point is to persuade the enemy to think oh, there's a chaffinch and not, oh, there's an enemy spy up in that tree pretending to be a chaffinch."

Milleuda rolled her eyes. "If you'd been the enemy, I'd have given a different call. But I'm not trying to fool you, brother. And that stiff didn't even notice." She gestured in the direction of the church and the now-tiny figure of Zalbag. "Is he here for Gustav?"

"Yes," Wiegraf said shortly. "Is he hidden away?"

Milleuda shrugged. "As hidden as we can make him. Sent him up to the ridge. But it's not a secret that he has been among us for months. Your friend will just need to describe him to one of the townsfolk, and then the jig will be up."

“We’ll have to hope he won’t be that thorough,” Wiegraf said. “Besides, after the fire, I shouldn’t imagine that the townspeople are too eager to talk to anyone associated with the Dead Men.”

Milleuda made a face.

“What’s the mood in Creshire?”

“Not good,” Milleuda said. “Everyone just spends a lot of time glaring at us. Billums sent most everyone to the ridge, in fact, just to get them out from underfoot. I think he hopes that the townsfolk will just forget the fire.”

“They won’t forget the fire,” Wiegraf said, squinting up at the lights of Creshire. “But it doesn’t matter. The army is on the move. A messenger should be arriving soon.”

“A messenger arrived this afternoon,” Milleuda said.

Wiegraf turned to look at her. “This afternoon? That’s curious. He was carrying a message to move out. I’m surprised to find you still here.”

Milleuda shrugged. “Was it in code? You know how long it takes for Billums to read anything? Now imagine that, but he’s gotta look up all the letters in a little book first.”

“True,” Wiegraf said restlessly. “Come along, let’s collect our pious little friend and be on our way. Maybe I can be back in town in time to spare poor Billums from translating the last sentence or two.”

Inside the church, they found Zalbag admiring an enormous painting that took up most of one wall within the church’s interior. St. Ajora stood with His characteristic torn noose around his neck. He had stretched out his hand to two smaller figures holding shepherds’ crooks

"Beautiful work," Zalbag observed aloud without turning at Wiegraf's approach, his hands folded behind his back like some sort of academy professor.

 _I am going to ruin him_ , Wiegraf thought for the second time, but aloud he merely said, “I’ve seen better. Zalbag, I’d like to introduce you to my sister, Milleuda.”

“Hello,” Zalbag said, raising an eyebrow at Milleuda and obviously curious about her sudden presence but also obviously unwilling to deviate from the monologue he had already embarked upon.

"There was a miraculous apparition here, you know," he continued.

Wiegraf did not know, and he made a noise that could have been interpreted either as boredom or interest.

Zalbag chose the latter. "Yes, several centuries ago, they say that a pair of shepherds perceived St. Ajora standing on that hill we came down. They did not know it was Him, of course. The true faith had barely sunk its roots into this land at that point. But they approached Him, and shouted at Him, and when He did not respond, they started throwing rocks at Him."

Wiegraf examined his fingernails. "These are sure some hostile shepherds."

Zalbag smiled thinly. "The first miracle occurred then, for the shepherds perceived that their rocks merely went through the robed figure, as if He were made of air. So then they approached Him, and still he did not speak. Then one of the shepherds took the hand of the figure in his own hand and tried to cut at His little fingers with the other hand." With his left hand, Zalbag grabbed his own ring and pinky fingers on his right hand for emphasis.

"That's a real escalation," Wiegraf drawled. "What kind of assholes were these shepherds, anyway?"

"Then," Zalbag said, "the second miracle occurred, for the shepherd looked down and saw that St. Ajora's fingers were unharmed, but instead the hand of the shepherd was bleeding. And the more he sawed, the more the blood spurted from his own hand, and then his two little fingers fell to the ground, severed. But the hand of St. Ajora remained unharmed."

"Hope those shepherds learned their lesson," said Milleuda as she prowled around the baptismal well.

"They became faithful followers of St. Ajora and brought his teachings to this land," Zalbag said promptly. "Hence this painting. Hence this building. “A stunning example of the neoclassic style. Full of little secrets and flourishes.” He reached for the rope hanging over the symbolic well. “You know, in some of the buildings from this era, levers like these led to secret passages and such.”

As he pulled on the rope, there was a grinding noise, and the painting of St. Ajora started to roll slowly to one side.

The three of them froze.

“That’s...unusual, right?” Milleuda asked.

“Yes,” breathed Zalbag. “I’ve never seen one of the secret passageways in such...good condition.”

The painting continued to slide slowly along the wall, revealing an open passageway.

Inside stood four men wearing the colors of Romanda.

For a moment, everyone just blinked at one another.

Then one of the soldiers drew his sword. “For Romanda!” he shouted, shattering the stillness, and then everything seemed to start happening at once.

With one hand, Wiegraf drew his sword and with the other, he shoved Milleuda behind him.

The Romandans ran forward.

Zalbag ran forward too.

Wiegraf may not have liked Zalbag, but -- watching him fight -- he could not deny that he was brave. The man launched himself into the midst of the startled soldiers, and his sword flashed through the air.

One of the soldiers went down with a wet gurgle, clutching at his slashed throat, and a second hesitated a second too long and thus received a deep cut across the chest that sent him tumbling to the ground.

But there were still two of them standing , and Zalbag was only one.

One of the other men managed to stab Zalbag in the right shoulder. The second son of the House of Beoulve staggered back and fell to one knee.

The lucky swordsman looked down at Zalbag with an expression of exultant surprise -- and then, belatedly, looked up at Wiegraf, who was abruptly standing next to him. Wiegraf hit him in the face and kicked his knee and then -- as the man fell forward with a scream of anguish -- brought his heel down on the top of the man's head with a loud crack.

The man's screaming stopped.

Wiegraf turned to look at the last standing Romandan soldier, who fell into a fighting stance. Wiegraf drew his blade and gave him an exaggerated, courtly bow.

The other man immediately went on the aggressive, which was a mistake -- but not entirely unexpected. He had just seen Wiegraf brutally windmill into his companion, and he could certainly tell from Wiegraf's tattered straw hat that he was no knight. Perhaps he thought Wiegraf was untrained at the sword, a jumped-up commoner with a blade.

Wiegraf could read him as easily as a book.

Wiegraf obligingly went on the defensive as he merely parried the other man's seeking blows. Slowly, bit by bit, the man began to grow overconfident and overextend himself -- and then, finally, as his ambitious sword darted out to pierce Wiegraf's chest, Wiegraf easily ducked and sank his own blade into the other man's armpit.

The man gave a little wail and fell to the ground. He opened his mouth and began to say something -- probably a cry of surrender, a demand for mercy, or some sort of similar bullshit -- but Wiegraf gored him in the throat before he could speak, and the man died with little red bubbles running down his chin.

Wiegraf automatically wiped his blade clean on the man's tunic before he looked up to find Zalbag watching him. The other man had used the edge of a pew to pull himself into a sitting position, and now he was gazing at Wiegraf with an unreadable expression.

Wiegraf wondered if he had heard the dead man's attempt to surrender, because Wiegraf suspected that Zalbag was somewhat inflexible when it came to the rules of war.

Zalbag tilted his head to one side. The right side of his tunic was stained red, and his pupils were dilated with pain. "You don't fight the way I expected, Wiegraf."

"What do you mean, ser?" The sword hilt felt heavy in Wiegraf's hand. _The death of your son in that church was a tragedy I could not prevent, Lord Balbanes._ But no. Milleuda was here. He could not do that in front of Milleuda.

"I didn't expect such...elegance," Zalbag said with a thin, bloodless smile. "Who trained you? You fight as if you were trained at the Academy, but..."

"No," Wiegraf said, approaching Zalbag. "I was not trained at the Academy." He sheathed his sword and knelt next to Zalbag. "A nasty cut, ser, but I don't think he hit anything vital. Milleuda, come give me a hand with this.

"A blessing," Zalbag wheezed as they bound him up in bandages.

"I do not think you'll be any good with a sword for the next little while. The question is, where do I stash you while I figure out what's going on?"

It had been largely a rhetorical question, but Zalbag answered it anyway. "The priesthole."

"The what?"

"Priesthole." With some difficulty, Zalbag raised a wavering hand to point behind Wiegraf. "Look back along that wall. Probably....probably under the window with the stained-glass depiction of the resurrected sheep, there will be some sort of lever or switch. It may be...disguised."

In the end, it was Milleuda who managed to find the little button in the wall that allowed them to pull back a well-hidden door, revealing the small, dusty interior of the priesthole on the wall opposite to the passage.

As Milleuda helped Wiegraf drag Zalbag into the tiny space, she said, “If the Romandans knew about the secret passage, surely they’ll know about the priesthole.”

“It should lock from the inside,” Zalbag said, a little breathlessly. “When you come back, just...knock three times, and I’ll unlock it.”

* * *

For a long time after Wiegraf and his sister had left him, Zalbag lay on the floor and felt sorry for himself.

 _Maybe I’ll die_ , he thought mournfully, and for a bit, he allowed himself to indulge in this line of thinking: the funeral, the eulogy, Dycedarg serious for once, the babies bawling.

Then, reprovingly, he thought to himself, _I must trust in the grace of St. Ajora_ and tried to will himself into a state of stoic acceptance.

After a time, even this grew tedious, and so Zalbag began to look around. Milleuda had lit a candle for him, and so the modest charms of the priesthole were revealed in its flickering light.

The objects in the priesthole -- the bed made from rushes, the low table, the three-legged stool -- were dusty and crumbling. Clearly no priest had bolted down this hole in a while. And yet, clearly long-past priests had spent time in this secret space. There was the remains of a robe hung on one wall. Three little stubs of half-melted candles sat on the floor in front of the opposite wall. And on a third wall, now revealed to Zalbag as he lifted his eyes, was--

“Blessed St. Ajora,” Zalbag whispered.

It was a twin to the image in the chapel, the image of St. Ajora and the shepherds, looking as if it had been painted by the same artist. As in the image in the chapel, Ajora was wearing the remains of a noose. However, in this image, St. Ajora was otherwise naked -- and clearly a woman, with a triangle of dark pubic hair between her legs, with wide hips and a narrow waist, with two enormous breasts and dark red nipples. And, in contrast to the chapel’s image, Ajora was not holding a hand out to the shepherds. Instead, Ajora was gripping the left breast, and a stream of white milk was flowing in a high arc from the tip of Ajora’s nipple to the open mouths of the waiting shepherds.

The image was so lurid, so intense, so _blasphemous_ that Zalbag nearly choked.

He tried to look away, he tried to focus on other things, he even briefly thought about trying to make himself pass out. But there was no escaping the image or the penetrating stare of this terrible Ajora.

Every time his eyes inexorably returned to the image, he noticed a new detail. On the third or fourth viewing, he realized what the red dashes at the belt-lines of the two shepherds depicted, and the sixth time his eyes moved across the painting, he identified the location of their hands and realized that both of the shepherds were furiously masturbating.

“Is this hell?” Zalbag groaned.

Time passed, an infinite amount of time passed, and Zalbag sporadically wished for death.

When he finally heard the dull sound of three knocks on the other side of the wall, he could have wept.

The priesthole door swung open -- and Wiegraf awkwardly limped in as he leaned heavily on Milleuda.

Some of Zalbag’s relief waned.

“Congratulate us, ser,” Milleuda said in a tone of heavy sarcasm. “We have emerged triumphant from our encounter with the enemy.”

Wiegraf, wheezing slightly, leaned against the wall and slid down to sit beside Zalbag. From here, he could see that Wiegraf was wearing a bandage knotted around his thigh.

“What happened?” Zalbag asked.

“We followed the tunnel,” Wiegraf said, a little wearily. “It went a long way. All the way to the mayor’s house. Turns out the Romandans made a secret alliance with the townsfolk to betray us. They killed my men. At least, they killed the ones who were still in town.”

“Poor Billums,” Milleuda added. “We found him in the basement. He still looked so surprised.”

“What happened?” Zalbag asked again.

Wiegraf gave him a withering look. “I killed them, of course. The mayor. The other collaborators. One of them gave me a little trouble, but it’s nothing but a flesh wound. I would have killed the Romandans too, while I was at it, but most of them have left already.”

“They are heading for my father,” Zalbag said softly. “They intercepted the message.”

“Bingo,” Wiegraf said.

“We have to warn him,” Zalbag said, struggling to stand upright. Then the pain of his shoulder shot through him, and he slumped back to the ground.

“You’re in no shape to warn anyone.”

“Just get me on my chocobo,” Zalbag said, gritting his teeth. “Tie me to the saddle, and I can ride all night.”

“Bad news,” Milleuda said.

“They stole your chocobo, Zalbag. There must have been another Romandan hidden in the churchyard outside or something who saw us enter.”

“But you know which chocobo they _didn’t_ steal?” Milleuda said.

“We still have Boco,” Wiegraf said. “Probably because the Romandans could tell just by looking at him that he’ll happily murder them in their sleep.”

“So you’ll ride Boco, Wiegraf,” Zalbag said slowly. “And you’ll warn my father?”

Wiegraf and Milleuda exchanged a look.

“No,” Milleuda said. “Wiegraf can’t. Not after getting stabbed in the thigh. In his condition, Boco will throw him off at the first opportunity. So that leaves only me.”

Zalbag stared at her. “You?”

“Me.” She dimpled. “Boco likes me more than he likes Wiegraf.”

“That’s easily true,” Wiegraf said grimly.

“So that’s the plan,” Milleuda said. “I’m going to leave you two here, super snug in this little priesthole, while I ride for the eastern ridge. We’ll send word to Balbanes. And then we’ll return for you.”

Zalbag lifted an eyebrow at Wiegraf. “You would send your sister -- your sister, _a child_ \-- out into such danger?”

“Yes,” Wiegraf said softly. “It’s the only option.”

“Please behave while I’m gone,” Milleuda said. “And-- oh, right.” She ducked out of the priesthole for a moment, and they could hear her moving through the chapel.

She returned five minutes later, bearing a large blue bottle. “Here, for the pain.”

“We are not drinking the consecrated wine,” Zalbag said, a little hotly, at the same moment in which Wiegraf said, “Yes, thank you” as he accepted the bottle from Milleuda and pulled out the cork.

“Your loss,” Milleuda said. “I will go now. Remember. Open if you hear three knocks, and not before.”

They locked the door behind Milleuda and settled down, grimly, to wait.

Five minutes later, Wiegraf said suddenly, in a startled tone, “What the fuck is this painting, Zalbag?”

“A heretical image of St. Ajora,” Zalbag said wearily. “A reference to the Zunga heresy. Which was the idea that St. Ajora was not a man, as everyone knows, but instead Ajora was a woman. The very assertion has been outlawed -- punished by excommunication and execution -- for more than four hundred years.”

“Hmmm,” Wiegraf said, drinking from the bottle. “I guess even priests get lonely.”

“You’re not supposed to consume the wine,” Zalbag said, glaring at him. “It’s only for priests.”

Wiegraf took another swig. “Look, Zalbag. You’re in a great deal of pain. God would want you to find solace, yes?” Wiegraf pressed the bottle of wine against Zalbag’s arm. “Come on, Zalbag. The priests can consecrate more wine. But it will be hours before Milleuda returns. Why spend all that time suffering?”

It was on the tip of Zalbag’s tongue to respond _It is an honor to suffer in the shadow of St. Ajora, who suffered for us all._ But instead -- for some reason he did not entirely understand -- he took the bottle and raised its opening to his mouth.

The wine was sweet and strong in his mouth.

Time passed.

Gradually Zalbag began to realize that Wiegraf, who was sitting next to him, was now leaning against him, and Zalbag felt very warm -- although perhaps it was the wine.

“Where did you learn to fight?” Zalbag asked suddenly, and he felt Wiegraf shift slightly beside him.

"When I was eleven, one of Elmdore's knights were moving through my home village, and his squire took a tumble and broke his neck. The knight was desperate for a replacement; he needed someone to curry his chocobo and lace him into his armor -- and after all, he needed to get to a tourney. And there I was, with conveniently little fingers. He didn't even ask my parents before he grabbed me and brought me along. And so I was a squire" 

"That's awful," Zalbag said.

"It was what it was," Wiegraf said. "It amused him to teach me to fight. Two years later, he choked to death on a fishbone, and I spent a week walking home to my parents' farm. They had spent the two years thinking I must be dead." 

A pause.

“Are you going to take the Dead Men from me?” Wiegraf asked.

“No,” Zalbag said.

“Why not?”

If not for his shoulder, Zalbag would have shrugged. “The Dead Men are clearly yours, Wiegraf. How could I possibly take them from you?”

There was a another long pause. And then Wiegraf -- who was now undoubtedly pressing himself against Zalbag, to the extent where Zalbag's other shoulder was beginning to protest the pressure from his other side -- said, “Zalbag, you sanctimonious prick. I’m going to ruin you.”

Zalbag felt pleasantly warm, and the pains from his shoulder had settled to a dull roar. “How are you going to ruin me, Wiegraf?”

“I might take a page from those shepherds,” Wiegraf said, and he reached down and pressed his hand between Zalbag’s legs.

Zalbag could have said many things in that moment -- like _how dare you Wiegraf this is a holy place_ \-- but instead his mouth merely fell open as he breathed heavily.

“Yes,” Wiegraf said, turning (slowly and carefully, to avoid upsetting his leg) to face Zalbag. “Where are your noble speeches now. You _hypocrite_.” And with that last word, Wiegraf leaned over and kissed Zalbag on the mouth.

Zalbag whimpered.

Wiegraf moved his mouth, kissing the edge of Zalbag’s jaw and the side of his neck. And then Wiegraf began to nip him softly with his teeth, and the curious mixture of pleasure and pain was so overwhelming to Zalbag that it took him a moment to realize that Wiegraf’s roving fingers had plunged into his pants and wrapped around his cock.

“Here you are,” Wiegraf murmured into his neck, using his other hand to undo all of Zalbag’s laces and pull down the edge of his trousers. “Oh, Sweet Ajora, here you _are_.”

Both men stared down at Zalbag’s cock jutting from his cock, erect and flushed. Wiegraf wrapped his hand around the base of the cock and slowly slid his hand up to its plum-like crown.

“Well,” he whispered hotly into Zalbag’s ear. “You really must be the flower of the House of Beoulve. Look at the size of you.”

“Oh, God,” Zalbag groaned. “Oh, _God_.”

“Do you know what I would do,” Wiegraf said, moving his hand back to the base of Zalbag’s cock, “if you and I both had full range of motion in this moment?”

For a moment, Zalbag said nothing. And then, in a low voice, he asked, “What would you do?”

When Wiegraf slid his hand back up Zalbag’s cock, he was now squeezing. “I’d pick you up,” he said, “and bend you over that table, and then I’d pound you so hard that we’d break the table.” He continued to stroke Zalbag. “I’d pound you so hard that you wouldn’t be able to walk straight for a week. I’d pound you so hard, you fucking noble, that you’d cry like a child.”

And then, with his free hand, Wiegraf reached over and rapped his knuckles against Zalbag’s injured shoulder, and the unexpected combination of sensations made Zalbag gasp and simultaneously spurt all over Wiegraf’s hand.

"Anyway, if I could, that's how I'd ruin you, Zalbag," Wiegraf whispered. 

And then -- because they were drunk and injured and tired and post-coital -- they fell asleep.

* * *

The next morning, Wiegraf woke up with a vicious hangover in a room with a terrifying painting and a silently glowering companion.

Wiegraf ignored all of these unpleasant things as he strained his ears. In this distance, he could hear a voice, on the other side of the wall, shout _By sweet Ajora’s puckered asshole!_

“The Dead Men are here,” Wiegraf said. He squinted at Zalbag. “When you said that you’d leave the Dead Men in my hands, were you serious?”

Zalbag grimaced. His eyes had dark circles under them. “Yes. This is your command. And I am not my brother. I will not snatch it away from you.”

Wiegraf continued to look at him. “Will you identify Gustav, if you find him?”

A longer pause. Then: “No. If we leave the Dead Men in your hands, we must also have faith in your decisions. If you count this man as a loyal soldier, than who are we to contradict you?”

Wiegraf nodded. “And what about last night?”

“No,” Zalbag said grimly. “Last night did not happen. I don’t know you. I never came here. This never happened.”

Wiegraf, far from being offended, actually grinned at this. “A tall order, Zalbag. Don’t forget that you walk in St. Ajora's light, and St. Ajora sees everything.”

Zalbag flinched. 

Wiegraf shrugged. "Be of good cheer, my lord. Nothing happened. You do not know me. St. Ajora is a man, and you are chaste, and all is right with the world." He yawned. "I keep my word, Zalbag. Be not afraid." 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] Sunt Mala Quae Libas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22806823) by [CorpseBrigadier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpseBrigadier/pseuds/CorpseBrigadier)




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